


thoughts, days, endless

by britpop



Category: Blur, Britpop - Fandom
Genre: Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 08:00:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11157621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/britpop/pseuds/britpop
Summary: Three short entries of Damon's journals between 'Blur' and '13' album, before his and Justine's break up, and at the height of disillusionment.





	1. Thought, Day #1

**Author's Note:**

> so this is rather sudden, innit ? three chapters of an unannounced project. i wanted to get something done for you all, so i gave myself til the end of 13 to write three entries based off damon's article for the NME in 1995 where he wrote down three 'thoughts.' i hope you like it, as it is rather rushed, and written in a perspective i don't think i've ever written in before. either way, much love and thanks to all. let me know what you think.
> 
> L x

I think there’s something of it that’s gotten hooked inside of my body, physically. Like how little chips of wood get lodged inside your fingertips, it feels like a part of this chemical has hooked itself somewhere inside me. It’s like an itch that must be scratched. It’s gotten to the point where I’ve developed these awful scabs from scratching at wherever it feels the thing has gotten itself into today. I’m uncertain if anyone’s noticed it yet. Someone’s bound to, what with all the papers swarming around my head like maggots to rotten garbage.   
Sometimes I think, maybe, I’ve become those little pieces of road debris you disregard when you see them in passing on the road, on tour, or whatever it might be. I think of songs I can’t remember completely, and replace them with others, just trying to fill the holes in a now incomplete body. I was talking to Graham earlier about an idea for a track he has proposed several weeks ago, only for him to reply to me that we hadn’t been discussing a potential new song of ours, but rather a song ex Swell Maps lead singer had just wrote.   
It’s a minor discrepancy in memory, but is nagging on me because of the overarching theme it might hold. Is this slight mental accident a sign of a bigger, dangerous developing issue? Or is it just a slip up not to be payed any attention to?  
I usually think it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie, but I can’t shake the feeling that this is going to result in tragedy. I’ve been reading articles, books, the backs of newspapers, the undersides of hair products, just trying to catch a thought for myself as to what could possibly be going on. But all I’m left with is useless information about automobiles and polymers.   
Alex was running his mouth about a programme he’d seen, one that was in regards to the mass corruption and cruelty of the poultry industry, probably another attempt at turning us all over onto the vegetarian card, but my thoughts are if you’re willing to give up meat for the sake of animals, why not give up dairy and other such products as well? It all comes from an animal, and I’m sure those animals in the dairy business aren’t eccentrically taken care of, either.   
But how far apart are slaughter and milking? The milk taken from cows are meant to be used to feed their children, they only produce milk when inseminated or just after having given birth. Something is suffering to feed another either way, if I had the energy to pick a bone with him in that moment I would have challenged him with it - but at the time I couldn’t feel. (This information about cows and their lactation also came from another venture into articles for insight on my unsatisfactory mental functionings.)


	2. Thought, Day #2

It’s somewhere near or around 4am in San Francisco, where I’m not coping very well with the mediocre success of myself in the United States. ‘Song 2’ has made a large impact on the stations, much to my annoyance, but what do I know? Pop people don’t and shouldn’t have thoughts about themselves or what they’re doing.  
I think back to a conversation I’d had years prior to today (more of an argument, actually) where I was told in the gloomy blue-tinted NME offices by a now three-years gone figure that ‘pop people are bred from the ground up,’ and wonder if I’m something similar to that.  
If the man I’d held this discussion with were around today, I’d ask him if he meant that pop people were like fake plastic plants, or like a blow up sex toy. But he would have probably told me that we all are, and that like the latter we should consider all of us to be fake.  
The mere fact (?) that I have these kinds of contemplation's should prove that I’m not just some kind of bred-from-the-ground-up, polished super icon but a real, living, breathing human being. But as my systems begin to shut down I wonder if there’s such a thing as a human being in this world anymore, and if the pursuit of pure humanity was really worth the fuss.  
The television is beginning to flicker (or is that my eyelids?) and I’m writing this all down as quickly as I can. But I think tomorrow I’ll ask Graham if he’d like to go get some tea with me, or some soda, or some anything. Some familiarity might serve me well, though Graham’s been getting rather versatile these days and I don’t think the drinking is helping him, but I can’t say anything about that. That’d make me a horrible hypocrite, and the three-years gone icon would have snickered at my saying that. Saying we’re all hypocrites in some way. Maybe I shouldn’t believe in anything. Maybe he was right.

“I know I believe in nothing but it is my nothing.” 

Light’s out.


	3. Thought, Day #3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's very short, i know. but i hope you enjoyed it anyways.  
> end of 90s blur stings.   
> much love,   
> L x

I went to a small diner with Graham today, as I said I would yesterday, and he had with him a small army green water container that had later turned out to be a makeshift larger flask. I asked him how I’ve been doing, as I held a cup of tea so hot I could feel it burning my skin, but held it firmly in both hands regardless to keep me tethered to existence.  
But he told me that I’ve been doing distant, and I rolled my eyes mindlessly at the remark. He then tossed some of the vodka out of his flask and onto my face, proclaiming that _this_ was the issue. It was then that I had licked my lips and tasted the alcohol.  
“You’re always so far up your own arse that you can’t see anyone else’s fucking eyes, Damon.” Is what he said before he promptly swallowed the rest of the alcohol, remarking afterwards that he ‘shouldn’t have even wasted a single drop of it’ on me. I couldn’t place an emotion.

I am now walking towards the airport, being the stereotypical band member who always makes the band nearly miss their flight, and am sucking on my lips to try to get a dash of the alcohol down my throat.  
I had paused to call Justinne at a payphone, payed extra for out of country, also, but she didn’t answer. Sometimes I think she knows it’s me, somehow, and doesn’t answer simply because of that reason. The reason of my being. I don’t think either of us know which way we’re facing.  
I’m feeling nausea coming on, I’m feeling tired. I don’t want to be on a plane for however many hours again tonight, but I can’t escape it. I can’t escape it. I can’t escape it.

I’m on the plane not escaping it. I’m next to Dave, who has been assisting me in my bodily sickness. He was showing me these pressure points on my left hand, from between my ring finger and pinky straight down to the wrist, there’s a nerve or something there to rub when you’ve got a sense of dread in you. He told me there’s bound to be lots of knots in me. I can feel them in my head. And in my back, and in my arms. In places Dave and I can’t see.  
There’s knots in the backs of everyone’s heads, and I lean over to see Graham resting his head against Alex’s shoulder, Alex running his fingers idly through Graham’s hair as he sleeps. The sight makes me nausea worse. 

I hope the knots in their heads are bigger, tighter than mine.  
I hope they’re happy.


End file.
